Turn Left For Fate
by Trins xxx
Summary: On the evening that Rhaegar crowns Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty, two words written in a letter to Elia Martell alters her actions and consequently changes the course fate had initially outlined, AU.


**Disclaimer****: **I do not own A Game of Fire and Ice. I know who my protagonist would be, if I did.

**Author's Note****: **I admit to joining the fanbase of A Game of Fire and Ice late, only after watching Game of Thrones. And out of all the tragedies and characters that I have read about, I feel that one of the saddest was Elia Martell and her children's fates. I also think, being the sister of Doran and Oberyn, the daughter of a ruling princess – it all gave her such scope. This is my AU take on it – the changes are as follows. Elia originally had never left her chambers on the night that Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark Queen of Love and Beauty. This story alters it such that, as a result of receiving a letter, she did leave her camp and found Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark having a clandestine meeting. Secondly, instead of being sent to King's Landing before the tourney, Jaime Lannister stayed here and was present for the crowning of the Queen of Love and Beauty. The rest, I feel, are potentially as in keeping with what is canon about Elia Martell and all the characters involved as anything else.

I also want to drop a line about some of the stories that initially inspired me to write an Elia Martell-centric AU story. **Failed to De-Anon **and their story, A welcome back to the home he left behind was the first one that I read that hooked me in. I also loved their Realignment and Changed Circumstances stories. **Ramzes **and any of the stories relating to the Martells, but in particular, Lady of Dorne has been hugely inspirational, as much for the manner of writing as the plot. If there is a story with Elia in it, chances are I have at least glimpsed at it and I owe all the authors of any Elia-centric story some gratitude.

Finally, please enjoy the story. Or if you don't, please tell me what you disliked about it. This is essentially a prologue (which ended up being surprisingly long), focussing almost solely on Elia. From the next chapter onwards, it shall include far more characters.

* * *

**Turn Left For Fate**

**Sound of a broken heart**

'Don't stay in bed, unless you can make money in bed.'

~ _George Burns _~

It had been a split moment decision, borne of reading two words, that found Elia Targaeryan, née Martell, wandering outside in the dark. It felt like each step she took was laboured and heavy, phantom remnants from the months following her childbirth, but to those that knew her well and loved her dearly, they would have seen a certain strength and sense of purpose that had been not _lacking_ precisely, but _stifled_ since she had changed her title from Princess of Dorne to wife of the Prince of the Iron Throne. To the majority of the people in Harrenhaal, they would have seen a walk that denoted nothing if not royalty.

At this late hour, the wind had picked up speed, stinging the cheeks of any caught unawares outside like slaps from a scorned lover, ever so representative of the turmoil her emotions were in right now. There was too much salt in the air and none of the delicate aroma of sand, spices and Dorne for it to remind Elia of home, but if she couldn't enjoy the precious sun that her banners bore, she was ready to bask in the wind that reminded her of sandstorms from her childhood. Oberyn would have scoffed at this, Doran would smile indulgently and the memory of those two caused her throat to constrict a bit further.

What would they do in the precarious situation she found herself in?

Her steps had found her searching for Ashara but the Dornish beauty was nowhere to be found. They had both imbibed plenty of wine, the rich, the sweet and the ones that were a little dry too. It amused Elia endlessly that for all her frail health, none of the ladies could drink quite as much as she could, and without overt inebriation too.

Not so frail with the alcohol, she thought sardonically.

Nobody knew better than Elia which activities her dearest friend was most liable to be involved in when in her cups – more often than not, she had been the one to encourage it, sometimes even instigate it, particularly in their younger days. In the here and now, she was desperate for someone to confide in, to discuss the ramifications of her husband's indiscretion. She would find her closest friend undoubtedly enjoying carnal pleasures, and she didn't know whether to sigh or smile, so she did both, allowing her feet to lead her away from the Royal camp as her mind tripped over the various lords, wondering which one of them were Ashara's latest victim. Funny that of all the Martells, Ashara had only ever kissed one. The thought lifted the edges of her delicately shaped lips, the smile gradually fading away as her thoughts returned to the consequences of her husband's folly.

This is how her life falls apart.

Not by war cries or the actions of an increasingly insane and bloodthirsty king, not the impulsive actions of a much beloved brother or the rash impulses and acid tainted words that she has to force herself to swallow time and again, but by the thoughtless stupidity of a husband that still remained dear to her heart, despite it all.

It was the murmur of voices that broke Elia's reverie. Her trained ears picked up the intonations that denoted nobility clearly. She looked around at her surroundings, startled to realise that she had no idea whose camp she was in now. She would have recognised each and every house from the banners raised in the daylight but the velvet darkness of the night was not so helpful.

For a moment, she stood there debating over what she should do – announce her presence or slip away without interrupting what was clearly a private meeting? Except that it wasn't a _private _meeting, it was clandestine. Did that make a difference? _Should _it make a difference? Her husband's actions and his father's brutal madness were leaving her more and more bereft of any power.

And knowledge was power.

She knew what was expected of her as wife of Prince Rhaegar. She also knew what her mother, the inspirational Moniellar, Princess of Dorne, would have done. She crept forward, draping the shadows afforded by the tents around her slender figure like cloaks. These were not the actions of the bride of a Targaryaen, but those of a Princess to rule. Her eyes glittered like poison, a black sun burning from within and yet, for all her cynicism and world-wisely views, there was a single moment when her breath hitched and her eyes widened, before she slipped away in the direction she had come, the dancing rhythm of her heart filling her with renewed life, like a resurrection of sorts.

_Power_, indeed. Her lips curled up in a self-satisfied smile.

Her steps moved swiftly and surely, slithering in the grass. What would her husband think of her actions? Her lips quirked up on the right, more of a smirk than a smile. What would the Mad King think? Her smile broadened at that. It was a strange feeling, this. The hurt was very much there, the humiliation humbled but not gone. There was anger and resentment plenty but there was...hope? A sense of wonder at rediscovering parts of her she had forgotten? Of strength and perseverance, maybe even a sense of superiority? And underlying all of those feelings was... She stilled at the thought.

She wanted vengeance.

Blinking rapidly in a vain attempt to remove the realisation from her mind, she took slower steps, avoiding the few voices that she could hear, all self-satisfaction gone as suddenly as it had arrived. This wasn't her. This wasn't the Elia she had become or the Elia she had been. This was some stranger, a monstrosity leeching onto her soul. Her feet led her to the western outskirts of the camp, lined by trees that appeared to stretch into the sky. It was in the shadows of these trees that Elia's decision was made.

Was this heartbreak?

The beauty was picturesque, the picture hauntingly beautiful. She wished she had never laid eyes on this sight. She didn't think she could ever get rid of it, or rid herself of the _betrayal _and _hopelessness _she felt at that moment. The moonlight glanced off of Rhaegar's face, the intimate dance between light and dark making him seem otherworldly and achingly handsome. The little Wolf-girl sat at his feet, staring up in adoration and wander. She sat in his shadows, absorbing all he could give and he sat tall, his back straight, absorbing her worship like a devastating angel or a redeeming demon.

It made Elia sick.

It was one of the few things she could never give him. For all that he was brought up as the Crown Prince, she had equally been brought up in a land that allowed women to rule by their own rights. Both Elia and Oberyn had been taught the ways of a ruler, though there was no expectation of Doran or his line being lost. Oberyn had chosen to disregard much of the learning but Elia had absorbed them, at the time being second in line to rule Dorne, and she had brought that knowledge into her marriage. For her, Rhaegar had never been a ballad to sing about or a dazzling King to be. He had been a husband and a future ruler that she should help and advise whenever he needed her to. She had come to the marriage offering herself as wife and lover, mother of his children and caregiver to his parents but also as a partner, an advisor who he could unburden himself. Worshipper or flatterer hadn't been any part of the package she had offered.

Was this what he wanted?

It wasn't what he needed – she knew that much for sure. It had long been Elia who had soothed over any minor grievances or offences that Rhaegar had caused in his absentminded ways. But was this what he wanted in a wife? Blind faith, rose-tinted glasses… She could never give him that. He was a husband, no demi-god brought to life.

The ache in her chest refused to abate and her long lashes blinked away tears. Her hood had long fallen back and the wind chipped away at the wet tracks on her face, whipping a few loose tendrils of hers in whichever direction it fancied.

'Elia?'

She started, nearly tripping over her feet in her haste to turn towards the voice.

'Are you okay? Come to my chambers, now,' Ashara led her inside, the faintest hint of worry present.

'I'm fine,' her voice sounded hushed, a remnant from all the knowledge-gathering, no doubt. Despite it all, she followed her friend inside, the panic within her abating enough for her to realise she could (and would) find a way to divert the disaster she could foresee happening. Seating herself comfortably amongst the warm cushions, she turned her dark eyes against amethyst ones. 'Would you care to tell me where you were?' She tried to aim for playful before adding as an afterthought, 'Actually, not where you were but _whom _you were with.'

A slow smile spread across Ashara's face, a smile of feline contentment that made Elia's own lips twitch upwards. 'I was just enjoying what the North had to offer.'

'Poor Eddard Stark. You have damned him for life, you know,' a ghost of a smile drifted across Elia's face.

'Poor Eddard Stark, indeed. He shall never know just what a wonderful time he has missed. Now Lord Brandon on the other hand…' Ashara's words trailed off as Elia suddenly sat forward, humour gone and intense focus present instead.

'You bedded Brandon Stark?' The words were barely loud enough for Ashara to hear but she nodded her head, equal parts uncertainty and defiance.

'It's not only little wolf girls that have pretty smiles,' her eyes glinted darkly, looking ominous in its beauty. 'I thought she deserved to have a taste of what it's like to have someone toy with one's family.' She watched as Elia leaned back, lids hooding her eyes heavily, deep in thought. Much of the time, she reminded Ashara of Moniellar but there moments when she was quick to anger or spitting out biting comments when she was reminded of Oberyn. Right now, Elia looked remarkably like Doran, deep in thoughts and plots and plans. Ashara felt her stomach dropping. Elia had maintained a low profile for much of her married life, only making manoeuvres now and again when roused and doing so in such a subtle that none who were not privy to her plans were aware that she had acted at all. If she was roused now… It was worse than she had feared.

'What do you think of Lord Brandon?' Elia asked in slow, measured words, eyes watching her carefully.

Carelessly shrugging her shoulders, Ashara answered. 'He is well enough…for a wolf. Has some passion and fire that reminds one of Dorne but no great thing.'

'You like him,' Elia smiled gently, eyes mocking her kindly. 'Those are the kindest words I have heard you describe any of your paramours by.'

'He is barely worth a thought,' argued Ashara. 'I am sure dear Eddard Stark will hear about it sooner or later and, well, his feelings for me are well known.' The spite in the violet eyes on her behalf was touching.

'Would you mind being married to him so much?' There was a worried crease between Elia's brow and an expression of true earnestness.

'Married? He is betrothed to the Tully girl.'

'If, for whatever reason, the betrothal came to naught, would it be so ill to be married to him?' Elia persisted, a feverish burning within her eyes that reminded Ashara that it was dangerous to scorn any Martell, even her dear, kind friend.

And the thought of marriage to Brandon Stark… A smile played across her face. Would it be so ill? Not in the least but what need was there for wishful thinking or dreaming of what could never be.

'Good,' breathed out Elia, some tension falling away. 'If you don't mind, dearest Ashara, would you please enjoy as much of Brandon Stark's company as you could?' She paused, her eyes distant. 'In fact, how do you feel about an intimate midnight picnic tomorrow night, with you, Brandon Stark and I?'

'Like when we were children?' Memories ghosted past her mind. The gods knew there were times when she missed Dorne like a mother misses her babe. 'I think it would be a pleasure, my Princess.'

Purple eyes met dark eyes, promising solidarity and a fealty that money could never buy. It was one of those things that made the Martells beloved in much of Dorne. They believed that loyalty and fealty were earned, much like respect, not exacted or expected or bought. And Elia had been as firm a believer of such words as either of her siblings or her parents. She never demanded, always requested, and nothing that she felt would be too much for an individual unless it was for the greater good for the people she ruled; for those reasons alone, Ashara would have done anything Elia asked for her. The fact that her request were much in line with what she wanted to do was a bonus she was going to enjoy for its full worth.

'I think it's time the North met some Dornish charm, do you not think?' Dark eyes were dancing with mischief and it had been such a long time since Ashara had seen her sparkle so.

'I'm sure he will be charmed. Elia,' she paused, unsure how to proceed. 'Anything you need of me, you can ask and I shall give. Are things as serious as you seem to suspect they are?'

There was a pause as shadows paused across Elia's face. Her eyes were unfocused as she spoke. 'I fear they are more serious than I could ever suspect them to be.' Her eyes warmed as they focused on her dearest friend. 'But thank you, my love. Know that I will never ask anything of you that you would not like to give.'

This is how a Princess of Dorne should act.

Her steps feel just as heavy heading back to her chambers, but she herself if aware of the newfound purpose in them. It's so easy for these Targaeryans to look down on her, to forget that with the Martell blood, she also has dragon in her. Dragons need warmth and fire for growth. What could be hotter than the Martell sun and Dornish heat? Maybe it was time to awaken the Dragon within her.

The wind had blown much of her hair free and her dark curls tumbled around her face, wild and free as she felt her own self to be. As she approached her chambers, Ser Oswell called out, demanding to know who she was.

'Princess Elia,' she responded blandly. She watched his face as she approached him, watching the doubt turn into surprise turn into guilt and something suspiciously close to scorn. He had never realised that she had slipped out and escaped him. Nor did he seem to appreciate her worth. If things worked out to her plans, he never would.

'Your grace.'

A polite nod was all the acknowledgment he received. In the darkness lit by a sole candle, she started a letter in response to the one she had received. She wrote elegantly with warmth and brimming with love, and between the words she penned lay the true message she wanted to deliver. She finished it with the two words that had spurred her to leave her chambers in her first act of rebellion as Rhaegar's wife. She knew these would be the words that would call him back, as selfish as it was for her to need him to return. _Miss you_.

Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.

It was time she lived by the words of her house. Elia Targaeryan was always Elia Martell first, and it was time the seven kingdoms and their Mad King remembered it.


End file.
